


The Hour of the Wolves

by WinterFire8



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Song of Ice and Fire References, Alive Starks (ASoIaF), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Game of Thrones References, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by A Song of Ice and Fire, Inspired by Game of Thrones, Let's fix the show's terrible ending, Love/Hate, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Sansa's character development because yes, Siblings, Slow Burn, Smart Tyrion Lannister, Stark siblings being cute and protective, Tywin Lannister's A+ Parenting, War, sanrion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23535256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterFire8/pseuds/WinterFire8
Summary: Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister are both lost.They don't know who they are anymore, can only remember who they used to be. Silver and gold, smiles and tears, pride and wit. What they don't understand yet, though, is that it's only when you lose who you once were, that you can finally become who you truly are.Sansa, now Alayne Stone, is held captive at the Eyrie by Littlefinger. One night she has a wolf dream unlike any other, a dream where she meets someone she hasn't seen in a long time.-This fanfiction more or less picks up where A Dance With Dragons (season five of Game of Thrones) left off.Jon Snow has been stabbed to death by his brothers, while the Boltons hold Winterfell. Daenerys Targaryen is in Meereen, Westeros still a dream in her mind. In King's Landing, King Tommen is everyday losing more control. All the other characters are scattered across Westeros and Essos, but their fates are linked.This story mostly focuses on Sansa and Tyrion, but there might be a few chapters with other characters' POVs.
Relationships: Aegon VI Targaryen & Daenerys Targaryen, Arya Stark & Brienne of Tarth, Arya Stark & Sansa Stark, Bronn & Tyrion Lannister, Jaime Lannister & Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister & Tyrion Lannister, Jon Snow & Arya Stark, Jon Snow & Arya Stark & Bran Stark & Sansa Stark, Jon Snow & Daenerys Targaryen, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Sansa Stark & Brienne of Tarth, Tyrion Lannister & Sansa Stark, Tyrion Lannister & Varys, Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 33
Kudos: 47





	1. The Red Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valar morghulis to everyone! I'll be quick, I promise.  
> 1\. The story/characters/places/basically everthing mentioned doesn't belong to me but, of course, to our dear George R. R. Martin and/or the creators of Game of Thrones.  
> 2\. There will be some elements that have been mentioned or explored only in the books, but I will try to make them simple and clear so you can easily understand even without having read A Song of Ice and Fire.  
> 3\. Other warnings/relationships/characters/tags might be added in the future.  
> 4\. A great, enormous thank you to everyone who's stopped by to read this story written by a desperate individual who's STILL not over the show and STILL waiting for the books. I swear I'm not a psycopath. Love you plenty.

Sansa Stark knew she was dreaming; she recognised the feeling. It was like putting her head underwater while taking a bath: everything was silenced and she could only hear the heart beating in her eardrums. But there was something new about this dream, something different - a _crispness_ to it she had never experienced before. She could hear every single thing: the leaves crunching underneath her, the voices of the trees, her own deep breath. She could even feel the wind blowing against her skin - or wasn't it skin? She had never had a dream like this one.

Yet, she had dreamed of this place before. Dark green soldier pines everywhere, hiding almost completely the white sky above; moss and oak and ironwood; and there, ahead of her in the very core of the wood, the weirwood heart tree, stark white with scarlet leaves. The Godswood of Winterfell. Sansa moved forward, noticing that her feet met the ground in a strangely soft way, making no sound whatsoever. She finally reached the heart tree and, tearing her gaze away from the face carved onto the trunk, looked down in the pool of limpid water.

There, watching her with bright wild eyes, was a direwolf. For a split second, Sansa thought it was Lady. _No, that's impossible_ , she reasoned. _Lady is dead, killed by my own father because of Joffrey._ And indeed, when her vision cleared and the shape gained more definition, Sansa realised it wasn't Lady; the direwolf she was looking at was unlike any of her siblings'.

The first thing she noticed was the red fur: it looked thick and soft, the exact same colour of the weirwood leaves above her. _The exact same colour of my hair_ , she thought. The wolf's eyes she couldn't see clearly reflected on the water, but she thought they could have been gray, perhaps blue. It looked at Sansa with the same expression she often saw in the mirror: sad and wistful, but with a touch of restlessness when no one was there, a gleam in her irises that made her look wild. _She's me_ , she realised, looking at the direwolf, _and I am her. I am the red wolf._

Suddenly, there was a muffled noise somewhere behind her; she turned, feeling her ears perk up in alarm. In a small clearing to her left, right under the long branches of a century-old pine, was a beast. Sansa could taste metal in her mouth, the same taste as when Joffrey had made ser Meryn strike her with his sword. Blood. The creature had its back to her, so while it hadn't seen Sansa yet, the red wolf could observe it with some time. She had never seen a beast like that in the flesh, but she needn't have to know what it was. She had seen pictures of those creatures in her books, heard many songs about them, watched people she had known and hated wear that beast as a sigil on their cloaks and their robes. Golden fur and mane, long claws, sharp teeth. It was a lion.

 _What is a lion doing here_ _?_ , she thought angrily. That was supposed to be her safe, sacred space, the home of her family, that held the only good memories of her past. No lions would ever walk that ground as long as she had a say in it. _It's just a dream_ , a part of her said, but Sansa didn't listen. _Dreams are all I have left._ A guttural growl escaped her mouth. At that, the beast turned around and saw her.

For reasons she still could not understand, that sight closed her throat, silencing the growl. That lion looked... different. He was huge, and by all means should have been intimidating; but there was something in his posture, in the way his shoulders were hunched and his head bowed, that didn't make her scared of him at all. When the lion raised his head to look at her, though, she noticed three things at the same time.

First, that he had very peculiar eyes: one was emerald green, the colour lions' eyes were supposed to be, but the other was pitch black, staring at her with such intensity that it felt as if it could see _through_ her. The second thing she noticed was that he had a huge scar, going from the right side of his forehead down to the left corner of his mouth, almost splitting the lion's face in half. Her third realisation though, the one that made her blood freeze in her veins and her heart hammer, was that she had already seen that face before. She had known the story behind that wound, had watched the slash gradually heal, until only an ugly white scar was left. She had seen those mismatched eyes being used to make people uncomfortable, but she had also seen that unique gaze softened, illuminated by the orange light at King's Landing, directed at herself with an expression of something between sadness and understanding. Sometimes desire.

 _No, this can't be_. Sansa was just about to convince herself there was nothing strange, that it was all no more than a dream, when suddenly the lion made a sound. It wasn't a growl, nor a snarl, but a soft sound that somehow seemed intended for her. The lion tilted his head, and sansa watched in astonishment as something passed on his face: a look of recognition. Sansa knew what it was because it was the same look she felt on her own face.

_Tyrion?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick info: this was sort of a prologue, but the following chapters will be longer.  
> Please feel free to comment: any thought, opinion, advice, critic is very welcome!


	2. The Silver Hand

Tyrion woke up with a start, thinking that he had been wrong his whole life, and afterlife actually existed. His heart was beating wildly in his chest, so loud he was growing dizzy just hearing the sound of it, but he knew he was dead. There was no other explanation for what he had seen and felt. How had he died? When? He couldn't recall anything before the dream. _A weirwood tree_ , he remembered. _Red leaves everywhere_. The breath in his lungs was leaving him in shuddering gasps. He could feel a softness around him, almost like a bed; but that was not possible and he knew it. There had been no beds in the siege of Meereen, and the only thing that had seemed soft had been the warm embrace of death.

Was death really this, not the absence of everything, but being destined to dream strange dreams and wake up in a darkness that felt less real than the dream itself? Had the gods finally listened and let him die? The Old Gods, though, not the Seven. The Northerners were right, in the end: godswoods and... No, he couldn't think about the dream now; if he did, he would definitely go mad and stop believing in the few, skeptical principles that still held what remained of his life together. _Which isn't much_ , he reckoned. And yet his usually observant mind could not seem to be able to concentrate on anything outside of the... dream? Hallucination? Nightmare? He couldn't decide. So he inhaled sharply through his nose - or what remained of it - and tried to rationalise what had just happened to him.

Alright, so, he'd had a weird dream; there was nothing wrong or unusual about that. The fact that he had dreamed about the godswood of Winterfell was slightly off; he had visited the capital of the North, sure, but had never been to its godswood - and he knew the one in the dream was Winterfell's because he had seen the walls from afar, and because no other godswood could be as big as the one he'd dreamed of. Nevertheless, that could be explained rationally as well: he had seen the godswoods of Casterly Rock and of King's Landing, he had been to Winterfell, and his subconscious had simply merged the two things. It made sense. What didn't make sense, on the other hand, was what he had realised a few minutes in: he was not in his small, deformed, human body. He was a lion, an actual lion, like the ones his grandfather used to keep in the bowels of the Rock; golden and mighty, with huge paws walking instead of his feet. _Well, the gods really are cruel, then,_ he had thought. _They have made me become the very thing I swore to destroy._

But all thoughts had disappeared like smoke in the cold, windy Northern air, when he'd heard a growl behind him, and he'd turned. He had seen a direwolf before, four years earlier and always at Winterfell, when young Robb Stark's beast had almost killed him then and there. He'd met the bastard's white wolf, too, and it had scared him even more: quiet, so quiet, but its eyes had been red with hatred. So his first instinct, _the lion's_ first instinct, had been to roar and attack. But the direwolf in the dream had been different. The first thing to struck him had been the colour of its fur: auburn, almost red in the morning light, unlike the furs of any of the Stark children's wolves. Smaller, too, but swift; it had been staring at him, not growling but breathing heavily, a look in its eyes like-

 _Oh_. He'd widened his own eyes, tilting his head, blood so cold in his veins that it felt like a burning fire. He had known those eyes. Blue, but not sky-blue like those of her mother; deeper, like the bottom of the sea, like the waves crashing on the shores of Casterly Rock. Lacklustre sapphires, that tinged with silver when she cried. _Sansa?_ , he'd wondered, and couldn't help a small sound escaping his throat. Tyrion didn't think he would ever forget the expression that the wolf had made at that point: its muzzle had moved in a way only a human face could and _should_ have, blue eyes sharpening, mouth closing. Was that astonishment he'd seen on its face? Her face?

 _Oh Seven, I'm going mad. This is it: the last joke. The only thing you've ever been valued for is your mind, and now you've lost it, too. Wonderful, really. I'd like to know these Old Gods, they seem to have a great sense of humour._ He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He hadn't seen Sansa _fucking_ Stark in the shape of a direwolf in his dream, and most certainly she hadn't recognised him in the shape of a lion. _She's gone_ , he had to remind himself. _Gone like all the others, left you to be killed in that city full of snakes, and now probably dead in a creek somewhere, killed like the other Starks._ Fuck, he had to stop drinking, if it led him to this. Therefore, the only other logical option for what he'd seen was... death. He was dead, like his wife, like his father, like Shae. For some reason, that thought didn't comfort him; he already spent plenty of time dreaming about dead people, he didn't need to do it for the rest of eternity as well. _Gods, no, I'd rather die._ The irony of the thought suddenly struck him, and he exhaled a raspy laugh, wincing at the dryness of his throat. Dead or not, he certainly needed water.

Suddenly he heard a sound of cloth, and light broke everywhere. Tyrion groaned, and cursed whichever god had decided he needed to be blind as well as a dwarf. He blinked sever times and squinted, trying to see something.

He was in the middle of a large, now sunlit room, and he was indeed lying in a bed. A huge bed, he acknowledged, with cool silken sheets of an emerald green. But then in that room, everything was huge: quickly scanning the area, he saw two dark wooden wardrobes carved with what seemed like elephants fighting, a nightstand beside his bed, an elaborate desk leaning against the wall on his right. Two doors, one close to the desk, and the second at the opposite side of his room, on the wall on Tyrion's left. In front of him, two enormous openings leading to what he supposed was a balcony, the slight breeze coming in to move the scarlet curtains that had just been drawn. And between those windows was Jorah Mormont, arms closed, looking at him with a downright annoyed gaze. Tyrion put two and two together: they had miraculously won the battle against the Yunkai'i, he was in the Great Pyramid of Meereen, and he was not, in fact, dead. For some reason, that thought didn't comfort him either.

"About time", ser Jorah grunted, approaching to sit on a chair Tyrion hadn't noticed beside his bed. "Thought you'd never wake up".

"I thought so, too", he replied, and touched his throat when the words came out whispered and strident. Mormont handed him a goblet full of plain water, to Tyrion's disappointment. He still gulped it with greed. "So", he began when he felt like he could talk without suffocating, "did I lose the other half of my nose in the battle?". To be honest, he was scared of the answer. He couldn't feel his head.

Mormont eyed him, almost seeming to check before replying. "No, you were just knocked out ten minutes in. You managed to kill three man in that time, though". Tyrion looked away. He thought he could remember something now: spurts of blood, the axe heavy in his hands, something hard hitting him at the back of his head. "Had to carry you on my horse for the rest of the battle. You were out for three days", Jorah continued, the corner of his lips turning slightly upwards. Tyrion widened his eyes, genuinely surprised.

"Well, thank you, I guess".

"If I'd come back without you, they would've killed me this time". _Right_ , Tyrion thought. _I'd almost forgotten how no one gives a shit wether I die or not._ He tried to partially sit on his bed, and winced at the way every single muscle in his body protested.

"I take it we won, then?". Mormont sit back in his chair.

"Yes, we did. With the Unsullied, Daario Naharis's Stormcrows, the Windblown joining Daenerys, and you convincing the Second Sons to do the same, the Yunkai'i didn't stand a chance. This is mainly the reason why we both aren't rotting in a cell: not only I brought you here and we both fought for Daenerys, but you also played a major part in Meereen's victory".

"And Daenerys?", Tyrion asked with something like hopelessness. She remembered seeing the Dragon Queen from afar in the fighting pits of Meereen, her silver-white hair blowing in the breeze.

Jorah gazed outside, almost as if looking for his Queen in the sky. "She hasn't come back yet, nor have Aggo and Rakharo, two of her Dothraki bloodriders. They went away looking for her". He sighed, then.

"You don't think she's coming back".

Jorah returned his eyes to him. "I'm worried about her, it's true. But Daenerys has been through much worse than you can imagine, and if she hasn't returned yet there must be a reason. She'll come back when she has to". _She has to come back now_ , Tyrion thought, but didn't say anything. His time with Jorah Mormont had taught him to keep his mouth shut sometimes.

"So who rules in the meantime? Daenerys's husband?", he asked instead. Mormont winced at that.

"No, he was slain by one of his servants during the battle, and he wouldn't have been a problem anyway. The Ruling Council of Meereen is in power now". Tyrion raised a questioning eyebrow, but the knight waved away his curiosity. "Too many people I don't have the time to tell you about. Anyway, it's chaos now, with Barristan...". Tyrion's breath caught.

"Is he dead?", he asked with something like horror. Sure, Selmy never liked him and would have probably killed him the second he saw him, but he was one of the best knights in the world, not to mention the Queen's Hand. His death didn't mean anything good, especially in Daenerys's absence.

"Dying", Mormont finished, his eyes sad. Tyrion wasn't surprised: although ser Barristan had been the one to reveal Jorah's betrayal to Daenerys, he had done it purely out of honour, and Mormont knew it, even respected him for it. "Which is why there's an Unsullied guard outside the door, waiting for the two of us to go to Selmy. He's on his deathbed, but he's still Hand of the Queen. He doesn't trust me now, and trusts you even less, so he wants to decide our fate before he dies. Grey Worm - the commander of the Unsullied - won't let us live if Selmy speaks against us. Against you, especially".

Tyrion laid back on the bed, his head already spinning with all the new information. "Fuck", he murmured. Had he just survived a battle to die at the hands of a eunuch? But then again, he had been saved by a eunuch too, so he supposed that was only fair.

"Aye, I guess you could say that". They were both silent for a few moments, then the knight fixed him with a stare that should have been intimidating, but by which Tyrion wasn't intimidated at all. The worst ser Jorah could do was punch him, and honestly Tyrion wouldn't mind going back to sleep right now. _A weirwood tree._ "Listen, Imp", Mormont continued. "You convinced Plumm and the Second Sons to join Daenerys-"

"Because I offered them the wealth of Casterly Rock. I have nothing to offer Barristan Salmy".

"True, but do you think that if you had been anyone else, you would have still managed to convince him? You went to him with ragged clothes and the chains of a slave, furthest from your house's wealth as you could possibly be, and yet he listened to you. You'll have to use that same sharp tongue of yours with Selmy".

"Just a sharp tongue won't do, and Selmy's already prejudiced against me. I can't deal with him the same way I dealt with Plumm, or the slaver, or anyone else for that matter". Tyrion looked at his hands, now lacking the rings of House Lannister. "No, I'll have to use with him something I haven't used in awhile".

Jorah leaned in, looking at him with dark, narrowed eyes. "What?". Tyrion took another gulp of water.

"Honesty", he answered.

The corridors of the Great Pyramid of Meereen were striking, to say the least. Everything seemed to have been built to impress; mayhaps it all lacked the opulence of Westerosi castles, but every single thing was nonetheless at least ten times bigger. Giant chandeliers made with inlaid bone, rectangular water pools in the ground where bright-coloured fish swam peacefully, and again huge windows on the walls to let in the sunlight and the Meereenese heat. Some Unsullied guards and other soldiers walked by them, but they didn't look at him; perhaps they were more preoccupied with maintaining the order in the city, or maybe dwarves weren't so unusual here. Either way, he appreciated the lack of curiosity. Mormont and Tyrion were being led by another Unsullied, whose name was Red Ant, he had told them in a tentative Common Tongue. He stopped when they reached a beautiful marble staircase.

"I bring you to level thirty-one", he said with his strong accent. "That is where the Hand apartments are". _So they placed me on the thirtieth floor_ , considered Tyrion. That was a good sign: the pyramid had thirty-three levels, he knew, and on the highest levels were the richest rooms, those belonging to the most important people. _We're hostages, Mormont and I, but at least they consider us important hostages._ They walked up the stairs, Tyrion silently thanking the Meereenese design: steps low and wide, a grace for his short legs if compared to those of King's Landing.

When they finally reached the door to the Hand's rooms, the Unsullied guard knocked three times on the door, then two. It opened immediately, and from the way Mormont's shoulders tensed, Tyrion could tell the one who was now in front of them was Grey Worm, the leader of the Unsullied. He looked similar to all the others, with nut-brown skin, short dark hair, and a simple black armour. He wasn't carrying a spear like the others, though, only a sword at his left side.

"Grey Worm", the knight greeted him.

The Unsullied looked at him for a long time, then nodded. "Ser Jorah". Then, he lowered his eyes to Tyrion, and the latter noticed how his gaze was completely devoid of emotion. He had stopped being unsettled by it a long time ago, with Varys.

"It's an honour to finally meet you, Grey Worm. My name is Tyrion Lannister, but people usually call me Imp or Kinslayer". He could feel Mormont's eyes burning a hole in his right cheek.

"I know who you are, Lord Tyrion", Grey Word said with no particular amount of rancour. "I want to warn you both, before you come in". He had the same accent as Red Ant, but seemed more confident with the Common Tongue. "Ser Jorah, ser Barristan agreed that you'll be allowed to stay here until the Queen is back; she will decide your fate then. Lord Tyrion,", he continued, once again lowering his eyes to him. "I trust ser Barristan with my life, and even if he should tell me to spare you or even follow you, I'll never come to trust you in the same way, not until you prove yourself worthy of it. Worthy of the Queen's trust". A hundred witty quips crossed his mind, but he said none. _You won't impress him with your brain or your mouth, this one._

So, "I'm looking forward to prove myself, Grey Worm", he just said, bowing his head. The commander of the Unsullied nodded.

"Come in".

The Hand's rooms were not much more luxurious than his own, but then he supposed in this pyramid they probably weren't used to having a Hand. The first thing he noticed was the smell: sweet and slightly alkaline, like a peach left out in the sun for too long. The smell of death. He was reminded sharply or Robert Baratheon, but he rejected that thought. Robert meant King's Landing, meant Ned Stark, meant- _A red wolf with blue eyes._ He shook his head. Ser Barristan, one of the best knights in the Seven Kingdoms and with all probability also of Essos, was lying in his bed, face strained with pain. He had a large, bloodied bandage that covered the right side of his chest. Tyrion was starting to feel pity for the old man, something he'd never before felt in his presence. He didn't like that.

Grey Worm led the hostages to two upholstered chairs beside the Hand's bed, and there they both sit to look at ser Barristan. Grey Worm kept standing at the other side. Selmy's pale blue eyes fixed on Mormont for an instant, then on Tyrion.

"Imp", he said, but his voice somehow still managed to sound solemn.

"Ser Barristan". The old knight didn't say anything then, so Tyrion continued. "What was it?", he asked, pointing at the wound.

"Poisoned knife, some Yunkai'i soldier managed to slip it under a chink in my armour. He couldn't have been older than four and ten", he added, a sad expression on his face. "It was just a scratch, but as you can see, it got infected".

"How much time?", Jorah asked, and Tyrion could tell by his voice his throat was constricted. He didn't know if it was more out of respect for the knight, or out of fear of what would happen to Daenerys's city now that the Queen's Hand was dying, but he figured it could be a bit of both.

"I probably won't get through the night". Mormont lowered his head; Tyrion didn't know what to say.

"I'm sorry". At Selmy's surprise, he went on. "I am. I know you probably wouldn't be were I in your place, but I never had nothing against you, Selmy. It was incredibly stupid of Joffrey and Cersei to send you away, but I wasn't surprised when they told me you'd come here to serve another ruler. I hope she's treated you far better than the others". Tyrion was surprised at his own honesty, but then again he had been through a tough couple of days.

The Hand looked at him for a long time. "She has", he answered then, voice wistful. "She's better than all of the others put together".

"I don't doubt it, from what I heard. And hearing you say it only confirms it". It wasn't that hard to be better than the Mad King and Robert, but a Queen who freed slaves and punished the rulers was indeed hard to find.

"I don't have much time, Lannister". He couldn't help but flinch at the name, but if Barristan noticed it, he didn't say anything. "Why are you here?". There were many possible answers to that question. _Because I killed my father. Because Mormont brought me here. Because I had nowhere else to go._ He closed his eyes. _The truth, Imp. You must say the truth._

"Because I have to come back". _A castle made out of rock, a cripple lion, the Seven Kingdoms._ "I have to come back to Westeros, because there are only a few things in the world I have left, and they're all there. But when I come back, I don't want to be the Imp anymore. I don't want to have to bow down to people I don't believe in, or follow my family's orders just because they're my family's". To Tyrion's horror, his eyes stung. _Do shadows cry?_ , he thought. "Because, despite everything, I still care about the Kingdom. They have insulted me when I tried to save them, wished me death when I was suspected of having killed a king whom they hated. And yet, I still want to prove them wrong, and I know that the only way I can do that is by following someone who is just, and who will bring them peace. I don't know your Queen, but I know that you and Mormont would never voluntarily follow someone who is undeserving". He looked at both of them intensely. "And I'm very well aware that you consider me without honour and untrustworthy, but I will do everything in my power to ensure that your Queen sits on that throne, because I know there is no one better. She's different, and she's the best hope for all those people, even if they don't know it, even if they won't follow her".

A long silence followed, then Selmy spoke. "What about your brother, or Tommen? When Daenerys will ask you to plot against them or kill them, will you do it? Will you still follow your Queen?". Tyrion grinned a joyless smile.

"If I went out of this pyramid now, and drank myself to death, I'd know that I'd have left them to die, because Daenerys will reach Westeros one way or another, and she'll do that with fire and blood. But if I follow your Queen, and if I counsel her, I have a chance of making her win without having the people I care about killed. I'm her only chance of winning without being hated by everyone because she brought death to the kingdom, and she's my only chance of saving them. I know what you think about my brother, but I love him; he's my only family. And Tommen, despite being a bad king, is just a child: he doesn't deserve to die and you know that, too. I can make him bow to Daenerys and keep him alive. I need her and she needs me. I know it might not be enough for you to trust me, but it's everything to me. It's all I care about". He leaned back in his chair, breathing heavily: he didn't even care anymore whether Selmy believed him or not, he had said the truth. He needed to come back, and now, for the first time in months, he knew why.

"Did you kill Joffrey?", Barristan said after a while. The question surprised Tyrion, but he didn't hesitate.

"No", he replied, "but I wish that I had". Selmy stared for a while longer, then seemed to make up his mind. He looked up to Grey Worm, who nodded and went to take something on ser Barristan's nightstand.

"It's yours now". Tyrion looked at the old knight; his voice seemed more raspy, and Selmy winced, as if it pained him even just to breathe. "Tell Daenerys...", he said closing his eyes, and Tyrion didn't know if he was talking to him or to Mormont. "Tell her she's the best ruler I've ever had the honour of serving".

Grey Worm approached Tyrion, and put something cool in his hand. As Barristan Selmy, called by many Barristan the Bold, exhaled his last breath, Tyrion looked at the object.

It was a silver pin in the shape of a hand.


	3. The Winds of Winter

Sansa Stark had never been really good at lying. Every time she took an extra lemon cake in the kitchens at Winterfell, or hid Arya's boots under Jeyne's bed, her mother always, always caught her; whether it be because Sansa nervously fiddled with her dress, looked away, or just because her cheeks became an angry shade of red. That was before King's Landing, of course; before she was forced to watch her father's head on a spike and still call the boy who'd made her do that _my beloved Joffrey_. From that moment on, Sansa began to excel at lying. _Oh yes, I'm going to pray at the Godswood; I love the king above all else, your Grace; My family are traitors_ ; and _Why not, of course I would love to marry the Imp, my Lord Hand_. Lie after lie after lie, it became not only easy, but almost an unstoppable reflex; as if she couldn't bear to speak the truth anymore, for fear that it would be used against her. What an awful little thing, the truth.

And yet, there was still one person she was unable to lie to: herself. It was surprising, really: she was such a stupid girl, it should have been easier to fool herself. It wasn't. So Sansa soon enough realised there was no point in trying to convince herself of something, or wasting time in ignoring the seed of doubt when it was afflicting her mind. Her brain was a forge: it worked day and night, continuously, choosing, analysing, and discarding each thought with sometimes an excessive unaffectedness.

It was for this reason that that morning, sitting in front of the mirror while her handmaid braided her hair, Sansa spent no time convincing herself that it hadn't really happened. Instead, she inhaled deeply and retreated into her mind, staring at her reflection and not really seeing it.

Sansa was once again dreaming. She instantly looked down on her body, searching for paws and red fur, but saw neither. She was relieved and disappointed at the same time. Back to her good old plain dreams, yes, but she had liked to be a direwolf at Winterfell, even if just for once. It had given her a sense of freedom that she hadn't experienced in a long, long time. Sansa checked her clothes - and yes, just as she expected, she was wearing the grey and purple gown she had often used in King's Landing - and sure enough, when she took a strand of her hair to look at it, it was a rich, dark red. _Gods_ , how she missed her hair. She gazed around while walking, and saw that she was - as usual - in one of the many corridors inside the Red Keep, precisely the one that brought to hers and Tyrion Lannister's chambers. With ease, she reached the door, opened it, and then opened another one, until she finally found herself in their old bedchamber, where her vanity table was: the only corner of the room she remembered considering hers. She sat down gracefully and started brushing her long hair.

Sansa didn't have nightmares, or at least not of the usual kind; instead, her long nights were usually filled with these strange dreams. In the dreams, she often was in King's Landing, sometimes Winterfell; she could walk and speak normally to anyone she met, but there was always something that stayed the same in every single dream. No one ever heard her. She was cursed to live again moments of her past, unable to stop them or change them. Sometimes it was gratifying: she would be at Joffrey's wedding, or in the Red Keep, or speaking with Margaery or Cersei or Tywin, and she could say whatever she wanted. She could scream at Joffrey, slap him, laugh at the Queen, and they all went on as if she hadn't said anything, as if she wasn't even there. Sometimes, though, it was horrifying: she would be speaking with her mother, with Arya, with Robb, trying to warn them not to go South, begging them to please not let father accept King Robert's offer, and no one would hear. She would be witnessing her father's execution, and no matter how much she prayed and swore and cursed, Ilyn Payne would carry out the sentence every single time. She had stopped trying, after a while, and started saying the usual sentences, my lord and my lady and all of that, or just keeping quiet. She hoped that, if she stopped fighting the dreams, they would stop coming. She wasn't so naive as to believe it.

Looking at her old self in the mirror, she realised that she didn't miss that child. She hated her: such a pure, young face, her eyes red with tears of pain. So _weak_ , like a little bird. At the same time, she almost respected her: Sansa doubted she would be able to suffer the same things all over again without saying a word, but her old self did. _The things I've done to survive_ , she mused.

She was startled from the sound of footsteps coming from the end of the corridor, but she instantly recovered. They were short and quick, and could belong only to her beloved husband, Tyrion. It wasn't the first time she dreamed of him; usually they just stayed there in silence, eating their meals; that was really the only time of the day they had spent together in the real world, except for the painful, sleepless nights. He tried to talk to her a few times - just as he had done years earlier - but she never answered; she knew that it wouldn't have changed anything and, moreover, the silence was no longer uncomfortable for her as it was for him. This time, though, her heart was beating harder in her chest: in her strangely conscious state, she had not forgotten the dream she'd had a few nights earlier.

Tyrion opened the door a few moments later, and hesitated for a split second when he saw her; Sansa knew, from the way the sun shone still high in the sky, that it wasn't time for the evening meal yet. He hadn't expected to find her here.

"My lady", he said then. He looked away almost immediately, heading towards his desk.

"My lord", she answered, and her own voice surprised her. It was childish, high-pitched, so different from Alayne's deep tone. She observed him quietly through the mirror. There were things about him she had never consciously noticed in King's Landing, even though her memory must have held them in somehow: like how sometimes he would gaze at her out of the corner of his eye with something like resentment, perhaps because she never made an effort to make their sham of a marriage less painful. _I had my reasons_ , Sansa thought distractedly. Or how his shoulders always sagged an inch lower when he was with her, as if he had to be more careful around her than around anyone else at court. That thought unnerved her. _Did he think I was made of glass? Or maybe he hated me? Was he keeping secrets from me?_ Not that Sansa would've minded: she had been keeping her share of secrets as well.

His blonde locks glowed in the blinding sunlight, becoming almost white. Sansa thought about the lion at Winterfell, the scar across his face, his breaths condensing in the cold air. She wasn't in the lion's den any longer; this was just a dream. _Why are you so scared?_ Sansa closed her eyes, then opened them again. Tyrion seemed still focused on the books on his desk.

"I dreamed of you". She spoke suddenly, still brushing her hair. There was a part of her who found it ironic: that she could only speak to him when he couldn't hear. Perhaps that was the whole point of their marriage: how they seemed to reach for each other but never at the same time. After a few seconds, Sansa pondered if she should speak some more, tell him about the wolf dream; there would be some comfort in saying everything out loud, she knew, even if no one would speak back to her.

But that was when she saw it: Tyrion's reflection in the mirror had stopped fumbling with his books, and his shoulders were set in a rigid posture. She couldn't even hear him breathe. Sansa stopped brushing her hair, trying to understand something other than the way her heart was leaping into her throat: she was an odd sight, staring with wide eyes in the mirror, holding the comb in midair by her shoulder. Tyrion turned abruptly, causing some of the parchments on his desk to fall to the floor.

" _Sansa?_ ", he asked breathing heavily, his voice strained. Sansa turned to face him, panicked. _Did he hear me? How is it possible? Why does he say my name as if he hadn't seen me earlier? Did he think I was a ghost too? Does he have nightmares just like mine?_ And, finally, _is that really him?_ She put the comb down on the table without looking at it, and saw his gaze follow her trembling hand. She couldn't speak, couldn't breathe for the life of her. She had forgotten the exact intensity of his mismatched eyes. "Tell me I've not imagined it, Seven Hells".

"You heard me", she whispered finally when the knot in her throat loosened enough. She felt dizzy, something between euphoria and dread forming in her breast: he'd heard her.

"Yes, I did. I-", he seemed at loss for words, which she had never expected to see Tyrion Lannister being. "I dreamt of you, too". He winced, as if he couldn't believe he'd just said that out loud. Sansa became very still. Tyrion took half a step in her direction, then seemed to regret it. "You were... a wolf. _Inside_ a wolf. Oh fuck, I'm too old for this nonsense". He said that without blinking, still looking into her eyes incredulously.

"And you a lion", she answered, her voice very plain. He stared at her in confusion, then in what looked like anger.

"Don't mock me", he murmured. "Or mayhaps my mind is mocking me". He placed the heel of his hand against his forehead, closing his eyes. Sansa was only mildly relieved. A few seconds passed when she was sure she was about to be sick, then he spoke again. "I told you something, the night we got married". Sansa's heart resumed beating wildly. "I remember telling you something right after we entered this room, but I can't remember what it was. I was drunk", he added, as if she didn't remember. Of course she remembered.

"You said to call you Tyrion, and that it was wise to drink".

He gulped, as if the memory was making his thirsty. "No, after that". Sansa stayed silent for a long time; not because she had forgotten, but because she was scared at how precisely she remembered.

"Astoundingly long", she said. After a beat, something in his eyes softened.

"Neck", he recalled. "You have one". He let his small arms fall to his sides; Sansa wondered if he didn't know what to do with them, without a book or a glass of wine in his hands. "It's you, then", he breathed. He looked away after a moment.

"Disappointed?", she said before thinking. What _the hell_ was wrong with her? Those dreams had made her forget to never say what she meant. He only looked up curiously at her, though, one corner of his mouth twisting up in amusement.

"You are not as I remembered", he observed. Sansa felt her skin turn to steel. _Of course I'm not. That's because of you, all of you, because of this city._

"I'm not fourteen anymore", she said curtly. He seemed surprised at the edge in her words.

"Right", he half-smiled. "Excuse me. I'd forgotten". He looked around then, lost in his thoughts. "What is happening to us? I don't understand this". Her rage was somehow placated by his honesty.

"I don't know", Sansa admitted. "I knew you were alive", she offered.

He did that half-smile again. "Really? I wasn't so sure myself". He sobered then. "I thought you were dead". Sansa didn't blame him: a girl of ten and five alone in Westeros usually didn't last long. She wouldn't have lasted without Petyr. "Where are you, then? I haven't heard anything about you".

"I'm-", her throat closed up. _What?_ She tried to speak, but couldn't manage to get a sound out. She grabbed her throat, which suddenly hurt like it was on fire.

"Sansa? Sansa, what's going on? Sa-", but she couldn't hear him anymore. The walls around them were starting to crumble, and she fell to the ground. _I'm going to die_ , she thought, _this is it_ -

"M'lady?". Sansa blinked and she was Alayne again, in her bedroom at the Eyrie, and last night had been nothing more than a dream. Sansa looked in the mirror, but she was so different. Her deep blue eyes were the only thing that had stayed the same, and they looked incongruous on Alayne’s face. Black hair, a black expression settled on those older, unfamiliar features. _I’m too dark to be a ghost_ , she thought. Perhaps Sansa had been the ghost, just a washed-out version of Alayne. She would have liked to believe it. "Will this do, m'lady?".

Sansa stood up. Her hair had been styled in a similar way to Aunt Lysa's: a thick braid went to her right ear to the opposite side of her head, where it was left to cascade on her left shoulder. Petyr had gifted her for the occasion with a beautiful dark blue gown, Tully blue, with a silver pattern of mockingbirds going from her breasts down to the hem of the dress. She didn't care to dwell too much on why he had made such a choice of colours and symbols; all she knew was that, if she ignored her dark hair and slightly different features, she looked like a younger version of her mother. Her mother, dressed in mockingbirds; she bet Littlefinger would have liked that sight. Sansa looked away in shame: if Catelyn could see her now, she would be disgusted. "Yes, thank you, Minisa", she said finally.

Today was going to be important, and Sansa wasn't intentioned to dwell on dreams or things from the past. _Sansa?_ It had been so long since anybody had called her that. She turned, shaking her head.

"Your father asked to see you before the tourney, m'lady". _He's not my father. I am the blood of Winterfell._

"I will go see him right now. You can already go to the jousting area, Minisa, and wait for me there with Lyra. Also, please look for Lady Royce and tell her to wait until I've talked to my father. I'd like to walk with her to the tourney".

"Yes, m'lady", Minisa said bowing slighty, then walked swiftly out of the room. Sansa picked up from her vanity the ring Sweetrobin had given her for her seventeenth nameday: it was white gold, in the shape of a falcon. This tourney's goal was to choose eight men for his Brotherhood of Winged Knights, after all, so the ring seemed appropriate.

Sansa went out in the corridor, momentarily lost. With the approach of Winter, the court had moved to the Gates of the Moon, Lord Royce's castle, and she hadn't become accustomed to it quite yet. Still, after a moment, she began walking towards Petyr's rooms; as his daughter, her rooms were close to his. The thought didn't scare her as much as before, after having spent more than two years at the Eyrie with him: she knew he would never be so careless as to be seen in her rooms, "father" or not. When she reached the door to his solar, she hesitated, closing her eyes for an instant. _I am a Stark. Yes, I can be brave._ She knocked.

Littlefinger immediately opened the door and his grey-green eyes wandered down her figure. With her boots on, she was taller than him. "There you are, sweetling", he said. Sansa could already tell from the way he talked that he was in a good mood. The thought didn't comfort her. She entered anyway.

"You needed to talk to me, Father?", she asked smilingly, closing the door behind her. He clasped his hands together, grinning widely.

"I just wanted to congratulate you, Alayne. You've done well in refusing Harrold's favour, and I've seen how you've been purposefully ignoring him up until now. That was wise: he'll think you're expecting him to prove his worth in the final jousting". Indeed, that was be the third day of the tourney, and only sixteen knights remained: the eight that would end up winners at the end of the jousting, would be chosen for Robin's Brotherhood. There was no doubt that Harrold would be one of them.

"Thank you, Father".

"The pairs have already been arranged, and Harrold Hardyng will joust against Ben Coldwater. Of course, when at the end Harry will name you queen of love and beauty, you'll smile and accept it". Sansa remembered Ben Coldwater: he'd been the first to ask her to dance at the ball a few days earlier. He was a frail, young boy with a pleasant smile.

"Of course". Petyr grinned again, this time fixing her with his glistening eyes. Sansa didn't like it: it reminded her of Joffrey.

"Is there anything else, Father? Myranda is waiting for me to go to the jousting". She kept her voice perfectly calm, smiling tightly at him.

"No, of course, we don't want to keep her waiting". He approached her and put one hand on her forearm; Sansa thanked the Gods it was almost winter and she had to wear long-sleeved dresses. "Everyone will be jealous of your beauty today, sweetling". He leaned in to kiss her then, putting the other hand on her waist. Sansa fought to keep still, shutting her eyes with strength. She had come to hate his fresh, minty breath.  
_I am a Stark_ , she remembered. _I can be brave._

Harrold was being helped with his armour, and he kept glancing up at her from time to time. Beside her, her two handmaids Minisa and Lyra were giggling, whispering about how the knight was _obviously_ smitten with her. Sansa was tempted to sneer. On her other side, Myranda Royce was glaring at Harry, her posture tight; Sansa knew she once had hoped to marry him.

She glanced around looking for Littlefinger. He was sitting next to Lord Nestor Royce, Myranda's father, and they seemed to be talking about something important; Petyr was grinning, while Royce looked like he wanted to punch his interlocutor in the face. She could hear a group of men below her placing bets, and the ladies chatting amiably about the last joust. It had been ben won by Andrew Tollett, who had defeated Edd Dutton, hitting his shield after four rounds; he had therefore become the seventh knight of Sweetrobin's Brotherhood, and now celebrated with ale among his friends on the dais. The other six knights who had won were Marwyn Belmore, a lanky man with red hair and surprisingly swift with his lance, Donnel Waynwood - the one Sansa liked best, mainly because he blushed shyly when he won and that reminded her of Bran, Mychel Redfort (who was the people's favourite, being one of the best swordsmen in the Vale, and thanks to Myranda Sansa knew he'd been the one to take Mya Stone's virginity), Lyn Corbray (Littlefinger's handsome informant, who seemed to like his squire Mychel far more than any other lady present), Lothor Brune (also loyal to Petyr), and Edmund Breakstone. Sansa couldn't help but notice than with three knights loyal to him and soon also Harry Hardyng, Littlefinger would control half of the Brotherhood; and wondered how much these men's opponents had been paid to lose. Or threatened, perhaps.

A herald suddenly announced the last joust: Harold of House Hardyng against Ben of House Coldwater. Almost everyone stopped talking then - Littlefinger and Royce included - holding their breath in excitement. Sansa watched as Harry got on his horse and held his lance, thinking about his smug smile he had on his face when she'd first met him. She bet he was making it now, too.

The first round was cautious on both parts. The two knights raised their lances, but none dared to venture too close to the other, so no one was hit. The second round was messier: Harry tried to hit Ben's shield with a swift movement, but Ben dodged at the last second, narrowly avoiding the lance. Sansa heard Myranda hold her breath in anticipation. The third round was decisive: Harry raised his lance once again, and this time hit Ben's armour with the tip. The blow caused Ben to sway, dangerously close to falling, but the movement casually resulted in his own lance hitting Harry's shield with a loud crack. Sansa barely registered that Ben had just won by sheer luck, when something unexpected happened. Ben's lance, still uncontrolled by its owner, pierced the space between Harry's ribs and right arm, and in the spur of a moment, Harrold was hooked to it, instanly falling to the ground when Ben raced past him. Harry's horse went crazy and started running towards the other end of the pit; but in doing so, his hooves hit Harrold's head three times. The third time, Sansa heard a loud, sickening crunching sound, and when the horse ran off, everyone could see Harry's skull was caved in, and a large pool of red blood was starting to form around him.

A lady's cry woke Sansa up from her trance, and soon enough everyone on the dais was screaming and standing up from their seats. Myranda was howling beside her, and Lyra had fainted. Sansa looked up to find Lord Royce screaming orders at his men, while Petyr's eyes were fixed on Harry's corpse. The heir to the Vale was dead, Littlefinger's plan destroyed in a matter of a few seconds; and for the first time since she'd known him, Sansa saw the man unmistakably surprised.

She looked back to Harrold, silent, while everyone was shrieking around her. Observing the blood darken on the ground, there was only one thought in her mind.

_No man can wed me, so long as my dwarf husband still lives somewhere in this world._


	4. The Pointy End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter with a new POV. Enjoy!

Mercy walked the cobbled streets of Braavos, trying not to be noticed. Normally no one would pay much mind to her: she was a small, dirty girl, with a plain face, and everyone in that city was always busy. But this time, she reeked of blood. She had tried to wash most of it off her rags, failing clamorously, so she had decided to roll in the mud by the docks. As a result, now she looked like someone who'd just been in a fight with a bear, but at least she didn't look like a murderer. She had once been a girl who liked playing in the mud with her brothers, but that didn't matter anymore. That wasn't Mercy.

She could see the House of Black and White not too far ahead, its black and white doors shining subtly in the sunset. She braced herself: there was no way they didn't know about Raff the Sweetling. She had killed him with a knife to his thigh and they would know by then, so there was no point in lying, even though she had learned how to do it. They had blinded her when she'd killed Daeron, the deserter from the Night's Watch; what would they do to her now? Take her tongue? Her ears? She was not afraid, though. _Fear cuts deeper than swords_.

When she knocked, the Waif opened the door. She was one of the many priests of the Many-Faced God and she looked like a young girl, but Mercy knew she was of thirty and six. The Waif had taught her how to speak like a Braavosi, how to lie, how to kill.

"Mercedene", she said, letting Mercy in. She spoke the bastard Valyrian of Braavos with a spontaneity Mercy had only recently accomplished, letting the musical consonants roll off her tongue. "Come".

"I need to speak to the kindly man".

"He knows. You will take a bath first". The Waif led her to the first underground level, where Mercy - and all the other girls she had been - usually slept. She knew where the lavatory was, but let herself be led all the same. She had learned to never speak against the Waif's actions. When they entered, a bathtub was already placed in front of the fire. Was it poisonous water, that would kill her in a matter of minutes? Or would she simply wake up unable to see, talk, or hear? _I don't need any of those things_ , Mercy told herself. _At night I am a wolf, and she sees, hears, and howls well enough for the both of us._

"Are you going to stay?", she asked the woman-priest, looking into her dark, hollow eyes.

The Waif nodded. "We will play the lying game", she claimed, speaking in the Common Tongue. She gestured for Mercy to enter the tub, and she did so quietly, throwing her rags on the floor. _Swift as a deer_. The scalding water was so pleasant she almost sighed. The Waif took a bar of soap in her hand, knelt down behind her, and started scrubbing her skin, caked with mud and blood. Mercy closed her eyes, waiting. "Did Arya Stark kill Raff the Sweetling?". Mercy hadn't heard that name in so long that it startled her, but she didn't let it show. _Quiet as a shadow._

"No", she said. "Mercy killed Raff the Sweetling". Which wasn't entirely a lie, not that it mattered: as long as she believed in what she said, it didn't matter if it was true or not. Behind her, the Waif kept scrubbing her back. The water was becoming pink.

"Why did Mercy kill Raff the Sweetling?".

"He tried to rape me", which wasn't a lie either. He had tried to rape her, even though that was not the reason she'd killed him. She had killed him because he'd butchered Lommy Greenhands, and a poor boy's mother, and because he'd raped and tortured and sniggered while he did it. "Will I die for this?", she asked the Waif.

"Mercy will die. You will not. Not for this, anyway".

"So I will take another face?". As she spoke, the Waif passed a hand on her face, and she felt it change. She touched it: it was different than she remembered, sharper, leaner. She had grown: she was fourteen now, the same age her brother had been when she last saw him. Except that he was no longer her brother, no matter what face she had. The thought made her hand twitch, but she stopped it after a second.

"A girl will have to complete another assignment. Her last, if I recall". The Waif began trimming her hair, which almost reached her shoulders now. She was glad: it had been a long time since she last had long hair, and she'd never found it really comfortable. She watched as dark brown tufts of hair fell into the water. Mercy had had dark blonde hair, and the girl had never liked it.

"My last?". So they did plan to kill her, afterwards. _The man who fears losing has already lost._

"The Many-Faced God will no longer require your services after that". _There is only one God and his name is death_ , the girl remembered. It was hard to forget in a place like that.

"Where will I go then?". It was a question her old self wouldn't have posed, but she was no one now. And no one had nowhere to go.

"I expect", the Waif said, and the razor she was using slightly grazed the line of her throat, "a girl will manage". With a sudden movement, the Waif pushed her face into the water, and for a second, the girl was sure she was about to be drowned - but after a few instants, she was pulled back out of the water, and she could breathe again. _Calm as still water_. The priest started brushing her hair then, with swift, sharp movement that almost hurt her scalp. She didn't mind: it reminded her of a long lost mother.

Three knocks awakened the girl's senses again. The Waif stopped brushing her hair, standing up to open the door; one of the servants was there, a pile of clothes in her hands. The priest took them silently and closed the door again. "Get out of the tub. You're ready". The girl did as she was bid. When she stood up, naked, she was taller than Mercy had ever been. "You'll wear these". Examining the new clothes now in her hand, her throat constricted. They weren't the usual acolytes tunics she saw everyone wearing there; they were Westerosi clothes. Brown leather boots, a leather, armor-like jacket, a grey shirt, and a hand-me-down thick man's belt, only a little too big for her. They smelt of the Seven Kingdoms, of a forgotten childhood, of another life.

She looked up to the Waif, carefully keeping her expression emotionless. _Strong as a bear_. "Thank you". This time, she didn't have to worry about lying.

The woman nodded. "Put them on and take this. It will grant you a safe passage wherever you need to go". She gave the girl a coin much like the one Jaqen H'ghar had given her almost two years earlier. "Then go to the main room: the man will be waiting for you". The Waif moved as if to get out, but stopped for an instant, her back to the girl. "If I never see a girl again", she said slowly, "beware the Stranger". Then she disappeared behind the door.

The girl thought about those words while putting on her new clothes - it felt more natural than any of Mercy's dresses ever had. The Stranger was the God of Death, and one of the statues in the House of Black and White was dedicated to him. Had that been a threat? Had the Waif meant that if she didn't complete her assignment, this time the Stranger would come for her? Or had that perhaps been a warning, an advice? Was the Waif trying to help her? The girl doubted that; the woman-priest was devoted to the Many-Faced God, not to an apprentice girl like her. Besides, she didn't need any help with Death: she had faced it many times and always came out winning.

There was no point in dwelling, though, so she left the room and headed towards the main hall. Some people were sitting by the pool in the middle of the room, others were lighting candles underneath the statues of the many gods. One of them was the kindly man, and the girl recognised him. He was replacing the candle by the statue of the Weeping Woman, whose real tears were filling the bowl she kept in her stony hands.

"A girl is finally here", he spoke with his kind voice.

"The Waif told me you have a new assignment for this girl".

"I don't", he replied, turning to look at her. "The Many-Faced God has".

"Valar dohaeris", she stated. _All men must serve_.

"A girl says that now, but she killed Raff the Sweetling a few hours ago. He had not been chosen for the gift, and yet a girl gave it to him".

"This girl didn't", she answered easily. "Mercedene did. He was trying to rape her and she was scared". The kindly man stared at her for a long moment, then smiled slightly. The girl thought she could see approval on his face.

"A girl should be more careful with her faces. That man had friends, and those friends will look for Mercy".

"Will this girl use Mercy's face again?".

"No", he conceded. "It will be a far prettier face this time. Arya Stark's face". The girl stilled. "This should come easy for a girl who once _was_ Arya Stark. Easy to talk like her, walk like her, think like her. To make people think she still _is_ her". Her heart was pounding in her hears.

"And after that?".

"After that, a girl will be free. She will no longer be allowed to give the gift for the Many-Faced God. However, if she should fail to complete her mission, this time she will be granted the gift. Hopefully, it will be painless". For the first time since she'd known him, the kindly man was making a stern , dangerous expression.

"How many gifts will this girl have to give?".

"One. One life for the one she stole from the Many-Faced God".

"Give this girl a name and she will take it". The man stayed silent for so long that she started to think he had changed his mind. But in the end, he spoke.

"Tyrion Lannister", he said. The girl believed she'd misheard for a moment, but the man kept looking at her, waiting for a reaction. Tyrion Lannister, who had taken Arya Stark's sister and probably raped her on their wedding night? The Imp, whose family had killed Robb and Catelyn Stark before her own eyes? The Giant of Lannister, whose brother had shoved a sword in Ned Stark's leg? The girl resisted the urge to grin. She wondered why she'd never even put him on her list. One last name, and then she would be free. It seemed too easy to be true.

"Valar morghulis", she uttered, bowing slightly. The man observed her.

"Valar dohaeris", he answered blankly, then turned with his back to her.

And the girl knew it was time to go.

She ran with the wind in her hair, oblivious to the stares that followed her as she passed. She was in a dream: it felt like being Nymeria and running with her pack of wolves at night, only she was doing it with her own legs, her own eyes stinging against the crisp night air of Braavos. She had never felt so alone and so free at the same time, but she knew something was missing; like a piece of herself that was still lost somewhere, and she needed to find it. So she ran faster.

The full moon was glowing in the deep blue sky, the only source of light as she got to the Purple Harbor. Dozens of ships were resting by the wharves, swaying gently on the calm sea, and people from all places were eating in the many inns the girl could see on the street. She paid them no mind, though, and kept running towards a group of rocks situated close to the shore. She reached them, breathless, and began searching.

The girl removed stone by stone with such strength and urgency that her fingertips started bleeding, but she didn't care. For a few, dreadful moments, she was sure it would not be there, that someone must have found it. But as she pulled a particularly big stone, she saw it. The twinkle of silver was unmistakable.

Needle was dusty, but still the same sword she had left there. It was skinny, shiny, and with a sharp pointy end.

Under the pale moonlight, her eyes grey once again, Arya Stark smiled.


	5. To Fight For Love

The snow was falling so hard Theon had to blink away the flakes that had caught in his eyelashes a few minutes earlier; the storm had been raging for four months now, and it didn't look like it would stop soon. _Maybe this is how the North is rebelling against the Boltons_ , he thought, _burying us all in snow until the Starks come back to Winterfell._ He thought about Jayne Pool, in a tent not far from his, who still wore grey and white clothes and pretended to be Arya Stark. _If they ever do._

The men outside his tent were preparing for the battle; Theon could hear the clinking of their armours. It was a sound he hadn't heard in such a long time. Hosteen Frey was marching on them, and soon one of the two armies would be defeated; although Stannis Baratheon's contingent could hardly be called an army. Five thousand men, half-dead because of the cold and lack of food supplies, almost all discouraged by the never-ending blizzard. Today they would fight; if the Freys won, he would be brought back to Ramsay with Jeyne. Theon would have to find a way to kill her and himself before that happened. If by some miracle Stannis's men managed to survive, on the other hand, Theon would soon enough be executed for his betrayal to Robb and crimes against Bran and Rickon Stark; it no longer mattered to him if those crimes were false. He would still find some solace in a quick death: that was more than he ever deserved. At least, he thought, Jeyne would be sent to the Wall as Arya Stark to join her "brother" Jon Snow: the bastard would instantly recognise her but, being an honourable man, he wouldn't abandon Jeyne. Perhaps she could try and live again, even as a broken doll. Theon knew he would never be able to do the same.

He closed his eyes, letting the cold seep into his bones until it numbed him. He could still feel the dull ache in his joints, in his feet, everywhere; but it wasn't blinding anymore, and it no longer made him want to throw up. Stannis had soon realised that Theon was not a dangerous prisoner; he was still chained, but he'd been given warmer clothes and he was allowed to move around his tent once in a while. One of Stannis's men had forced him to take a bath a few days earlier and, despite his initial reluctance - _Reek, it rhymes with freak_ \- he was now cleaner than he'd been in years. He'd accidentally walked in front of the mirror the day before: what he'd seen there had made him freeze in his spot. His hair, that had been white for all the time he'd spent in Ramsay's company, was starting to grow back, but the roots were black, like they were when he'd been Theon Greyjoy. _You are still Theon_ , he had to remind himself, but it sounded untrue even to his own ears. He wasn't Theon, the young ward with his sly smile and arrogant words, but he wasn't Reek either, not anymore. He was floating somewhere in between, like a boat without a harbour, or a child with no parents. A ghost trapped between life and death.

And yet his hair grew every day blacker, and he didn't smell like a pig anymore, and the pain in his body was a little more bearable. Theon was beginning to gain back his humanity, and the thought terrified him. He still limped, his skin was still pasty and saggy, he still looked twenty years older than he was, but he felt human, and it scared him to the bone. Because he knew that if Ramsay ever managed to get him back, he would be submitted to the same torture all over again. And he couldn't survive it twice. He refused to.

The flapping of his tent made Theon open his eyes again, and when he did, he wasn't particularly surprised to find Stannis Baratheon towering over him. The King wore a grey plate inlaid with a stag in a flaming heart, a studded leather jerkin over a quilted doublet, worn boots, breeches of brown yarn, and a belt studded with garnets and yellow topaz. On his face was the usual tight expression, and from his perspective Theon could tell he was grinding his teeth. He wore no crown for the battle.

"Greyjoy", he greeted. During the last few weeks, the King had begun to treat him less like a captive animal and more like a decent subject, if not like an equal. His visits were frequent and, to Theon, it looked like Stannis was getting each passing day more tired of his men, instead seeking an audience in him. Sometimes he even asked Theon questions about Ramsay and Roose Bolton, or the situation inside Winterfell, and even though the young man knew it was only because he wanted information, he still didn't know what to do with the sudden attention.

"Your Grace", he said, bowing his head not so much in deference, but rather in uneasiness. He didn't know what to make of Stannis: this King who didn't want power or vengeance or love, but who just wore a crown because he had to, because he was meant to.

"Sit on the chair, Greyjoy. I don't like to talk to dogs". Theon carefully got up from the ground and sit on the wooden chair next to his bed, his head still bowed. Stannis remained standing. "I came here to tell you that we will win this battle against the Frey, and then we will win against the Boltons. When we are inside the walls of Winterfell, you will be executed".

Theon nodded, then spoke without looking the King in the eye. "I know, and I won't fight it. But-", he hesitated, "I need to be sure Ramsay doesn't find me if you lose. I can't let him take me back alive". He paused, then raised his head slowly; Stannis's steely blue eyes were staring him down. "The Lady, too". _Jeyne. It rhymes with pain._

"Aye, Lady Arya". _No, she's not Arya. Arya had grey eyes like the edge of a knife, like Jon's own eyes, like Lord Eddard's; the colour of a storm, of Winterfell's walls, of her direwolf's fur. What was her name? Nymeria?_ "She will be sent to the Wall after this battle. You needn't worry about her or yourself, Greyjoy. We will win". Theon pondered his words: how could Stannis be so certain of victory? Indeed, the King's face was tight as it always was, but not scared or unsure. Theon knew he wasn't a fool, one of those who simply believed they would win because they were meant to; moreover, he had lost the Battle of Blackwater Bay, and he didn't look like someone who would forget a lesson.

"The Freys, I understand". Hosteen Frey, their commander, had the brain of a slug and the recklessness of a two-year-old child. "But the Manderlys are coming, too. And Lord Wyman isn't a fool". Theon briefly wondered where he had found the courage to openly confute a King who had him as a prisoner, but the answer was easy: six weeks without Ramsay Bolton.

Stannis sighed, but seemed finally inclined to share his plans; there wasn't much Theon could have done with that information just a few hours before the battle, anyway, even if he'd wanted or been able to betray Stannis. _Theon Turncloak_ , they called him. He was glad he wasn't that stupid boy any longer.

The King sit on the other chair, placed there specifically for his visits. "I suppose you haven't had a chance to explore the village", he began steadily, shifting his position. Theon eyes his sword, Lightbringer, warily.

"No", he answered, although Stannis didn't seem to be waiting for a reply. Theon had heard the man call the village they had settled in the crofters' village, but had only briefly been outside, and seen only the encampment.

"Well, then, I'll explain roughly. This village is situated between two lakes, and one of them is dotted with small islands; the biggest island, in the middle of the lake, has an ancient weirwood heart tree, the one in front of which your sister insists you should be executed". Theon closed his eyes: he supposed that wouldn't be a bad death. Beheaded in front of heart tree, symbol of the North, but on an island, a few feet away from the water where the Greyjoys believed the Drowned God lived. Dying as a Stark but not in Winterfell. A fitting end, some would have said. Theon said nothing. "Now, the village itself is nothing much: a few huts and a longhall that could seat at most fifty men. However, there is a peculiar watchtower by the lakeshore".

Theon perked up, suddenly interested in their conversation. "The one with the beacon. It was the only thing I could see in the snowstorm when I arrived". Hearing his own voice reminded him of Robb's war council, where they plotted and planned and strategized. His throat constricted. _Reek. It rhymes with weak._

Stannis looked somewhat surprised at his insight. "Indeed", he confirmed. "The fire at the top of the tower is the only thing that can be seen in the storm, the only signal the village is here". The King eyed him blankly, and Theon was oddly reminded of the Blackfish, Catelyn Stark's uncle. "If we were to move the beacon, one would think the village has moved". Theon could sense Stannis was still staring at him, as if he were waiting for an answer. He thought about the King's calm face as he talked about the battle, as he'd discussed with the frightened lords that accompanied him. He had a plan, a solution, and he wanted his prisoner to guess.

A few years earlier, he would have jumped at the opportunity to display his wit, but that was before he lost everything, before he became Reek, before Ramsay moulded him into a creature who didn't think, didn't speak. But. _If we were to move the beacon, one would think the village has moved._ Theon's eyes widened. "The lake", he whispered. He heard a movement above him and instantly recoiled, folding up on himself. _I am Reek, rhymes with meek, how have I forgotten? I can't speak to him, I can't look at him, otherwise he'll know I still remember my name, he'll know I'm not-_

"Exactly", he heard. But it wasn't Ramsay's voice, it was the voice of Stannis Baratheon. Theon dared to look up, and the King was looking away, lost in his thoughts. _He's gone. He can no longer hurt you._ He forced himself to speak again.

"You will put out the fire on the watchtower, and light another on the island in the middle of the lake. When Hosteen Frey comes to fight you, he will think the fire on the lake to be the beacon of the village. He won't be able to see anything else, so he'll advance and his men will march on a frozen lake". Theon had heard one of the Northmen grumble about the limited success of ice-fishing from the lakes. _You cut so many holes in the ice it's a bloody wonder more men haven't fallen through_ , he'd said. _Out by the island, there's places look like a cheese the rats been at. Lakes are done._ "By the time they realise their mistake, the ice will have already broken". Theon looked up, struck by the sudden understanding. "They'll all drown".

The King nodded, gazing at him again. It was a brilliant plan, and he seemed to know it. Theon wondered how he had lost the Battle of the Blackwater; but then, he had heard the Imp had set some kind of trap, and the Lannister dwarf was renowned for his sharp mind. He'd even managed to emerge as winner from a trial against Lysa Tully, and when he'd lost the trial for the murder of Joffrey Baratheon, Theon had heard from Roose Bolton the Imp had escaped from his cell and that he was yet to be found.

"Your plan relies on Frey's hastiness", Theon pondered. "Robb used to talk about him as if he were an idiot. His own men call him _Ser Stupid_. But it's a great risk: he could have someone more careful with him, someone who will realise it's a trap".

"You're right: it's a great risk, which is why I'll make sure it works. I'll send men at the opposite sides of the lake, and they'll shoot some arrows. The Freys will be certain my men are actually in front of them".

For some reason, Theon suddenly remembered the day when, almost five years earlier, he'd left Winterfell to look for Bran and Rickon, who had escaped never to be found again. He usually did not dwell on the past; but he found he was doing so over and over in the last few weeks. There are some disadvantages in being Theon again. He had explored the wolfswood with some of his men; the autumn had just begun at the time, but it had been already hard to walk among the bushes in the snow. He remembered very clearly thinking that it was a pity no Northman would ever help him in his foolish quest, if anything because the people of the North knew how to use particular snowshoes that distributed the weight more easily. "You could also send some men of the mountain clans on the ice. They have those snowshoes".

Stannis seemed to be considering it. "I reckon I could. I don't need many men, anyway. Most of theirs will have drowned by then, and the others we will kill or take hostage".

"And the Manderlys?". Theon remembered the huge Wyman Wanderly, Lord Lamprey, as they called him. His amiable front and booming laugh, hiding a shrewd, calculating man.

"As you pointed out, Manderly hates the Frey and the Boltons more than any of us. I don't think he likes me, either, but he won't fight me if I can help him kill them all".

"He wants to bring the Starks back to Winterfell. He'll betray you if you try to stop that, just like he's probably betrayed Roose Bolton". Theon firmly believed that: he didn't think there was another Northern house more loyal to the Starks than the Manderlys. Perhaps only the Mormonts, and they were currently fighting alongside Stannis.

"If you're sure", the King conceded. "And I would also like for a Stark to be at Winterfell; otherwise the North will keep on rebelling. However, I am not certain Arya Stark is enough to ensure me the loyalty of the North. She was married to a Bolton, and now she looks like she's not so far from dying". Jeyne. It rhymes with slain. "Since all of Ned Stark's sons are dead because of you" - _that's a lie, only Robb died because of me, my Robb, my brother_ \- "and Sansa Stark is nowhere to be found, I believe Jon Snow would do as Lord of Winterfell. I even offered to make him a Stark, but he refused; he seems to be loyal to the Night's Watch now. Perhaps he'll change his mind when he sees his sister, though, and he'll accept to at least support her claim. The North will follow him: there's much more of Ned Stark in him than in anyone else". _That's because you haven't seen the real Arya_ , he thought, but remained silent. When Stannis would find out the truth, Jon would be the closest option to a Stark - if he accepted to leave the Night's Watch. Theon had stopped believing Bran and Rickon could be alive a long time ago; just because he hadn't killed them, it didn't mean no one else could have. A cripple and a five-year-old boy couldn't survive long without help, not even with their direwolves. "Nevertheless, we can't think of that now. It'll be a problem for when Manderly shows up, if he ever does".

Theon nodded in agreement.

"That is not what I came here to tell you, though, Greyjoy". He could feel Stannis's eyes on him, and his hands shook violently. They always shook, even at Winterfell, when he had to serve the wine to the lords who had once followed Robb, and had looked at Theon as the King's most trusted advisor. Now they looked at him as though he were a poorly trained beast. “Do you remember how to wield a sword?”.

 _You’re better than me with a bow_ , Robb had told him one day, the light passing through the branches and lighting up his bright blue eyes. _But I’m better with a sword._ He had laughed then, and pulled a young Theon in a tight embrace. _No one can hurt me while I’m with him_ , he remembered thinking. Copious tears were falling on the hard ground, on Theon’s shaking hands. Did he remember how to wield a sword? Did he remember Robb’s face, his laughing mouth, his red-brown hair? _Oh Gods, I should have died with him. My brother. My Robb._ “Yes”, he breathed. “I remember”.

“Good”, answered Stannis, and if he noticed Theon’s tears, he did not comment. “You can come in now”. Theon looked up, and a flap of the tent opened to reveal his sister. Asha Greyjoy, face thin and nose sharp, was more an Ironborn than Theon had ever been.

“Brother”, she said, looking down at him with no softness in her eyes. Sitting in shackles on a chair, tears streaking down his face, Theon must not have been a welcome sight for his stone-hearted sibling. He missed her wicked smile.

Stannis got up from his chair, and it was only then that Theon realised Asha had her axe with her. What did that mean? Had she been freed? “Lady Asha, care to explain to you brother what’s going to happen?”, the King asked.

Asha inhaled deeply, then moved forward. She shot a surprised look at his hair, undoubtedly because of its newly found black colour, the same of hers. “We’re going to fight, Theon. Fight for Winterfell. I bet this is what you’ve always really wanted, isn’t it?”.

“There are no horses”, Stannis interrupted. Theon knew that: the horses had all been eaten weeks earlier. “And if you try to run away, I trust you know you’ll die before nightfall in this storm. Your only chance is to fight for me”. He turned to Asha then. “Perhaps I could let you come back to the Iron Islands after that”. His sister nodded quickly, as if she’d already heard that same argument many times.

“Brother”, she said then, “this is your last chance for honour. If the men see you fighting for Winterfell, maybe they’ll agree to have you killed with a sword and not with fire. And if you’re lucky enough, you’ll get killed in this battle and there will be no need for an execution”.

“You’ll die wielding a sword for the North”, the King added. “That’s the best death I can offer you. The best death anyone can offer you”.

They both stared at him then; a King he’d just met and a sister he had never really known. Theon looked away, outside of the tent: the snow was falling thickly, but he wasn’t seeing it. All he could see was Robb playing in the snow at Winterfell, his hands red because of the cold, his voice in the wind the only thing Theon could follow when he couldn’t see. _I should have died with you_ , he thought. _But that battle is already lost, and I can’t come back. I can’t keep running back to you._ He thought about the look in Robb’s eyes when they had to leave Winterfell, leave the North. _Aye, but there is still something I can do. I can’t fight with you, but I can fight for you. I can’t die with you, but I can die for you. For our home._

Someone unshackled him and gave him a sword. He could hear horns, men shouting, the sound of feet on the snow. The sound of the North.

_For Robb._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, this chapter was an absolute nightmare to write. Anyways, next is gonna be Tyrion's POV.


End file.
